Isn’t this supposed to be the most exciting time of my life – the time where single girls have fancy jobs, live it up, meet interesting gentlemen in bars, travel to Greece and Zambia and Italy, are allowed to blow their entire paychecks on fabulous attire – and all the while, have smokin’ bodies and perky breasts because they have not yet given birth?

Sometimes, I think that my married friends have a very skewed view of my life – just like I probably often have of theirs.

Let me tell you what my daily life has actually been like.

I hit the snooze alarm for an entire hour before finally getting up, already late, and throwing on whatever t-shirt is closest and the one pair of jeans that’s fitting these days. I do not accessorize. I do not do my hair. I do not wear perfume. I barely smear makeup onto my face before grabbing my pre-packed breakfast AND lunch and running out to my 1990 Honda Accord that has been missing a hubcap for 7 YEARS now.

Usually my car starts within 2 tries. I drive 5 minutes to work and grab a cup of coffee on the way to my desk. Approximately the first 7 minutes of the day consist of checking my Gmail and Facebook, but that is just about all of the personal internet time I take before diving into a job that keeps my brain on speed for the rest of the day. Thankfully, I am feeling more and more competent every week, and finally pull my weight as a contributing member of the team – but leave with crossed eyes and a deflated brain from thinking so hard. As strange as it sounds, I am beginning to get addicted to the fatigue.

My evenings are a balancing act of “have dinner (cheese and alcohol does not count, Annie),” “run 5 errands,” “stick to your commitments,” “try to be nice to the people around you,” and “burn off every calorie that you consumed while sitting still all day.” Honestly, my thighs. What is happening? I’m referring to it as the “urban spread.”

I get home from the gym at 10pm, but only because that is when the YMCA closes, and not because I feel like I have paid my due penance. A rinse-off shower follows (I wash my hair as infrequently as possible to keep my cheap dye job from turning Soviet purple), and then I crawl into bed with every intention of finishing “Eclipse.” But then I remember that I have to pay some bills, I have to order some wedding gifts, I have to return some emails, I have to do some laundry, I have to clean my bathroom floor, I have to pre-pack my breakfast AND lunch.

Therefore, I have been reading “Eclipse,” young adult fiction about teenage vampires, for 8 weeks now.

I am awake until 1am before putting in my sexy mouth guard and sleeping for not-long-enough before hitting the snooze alarm for an entire hour the next morning and doing it all again.

Some of you will read this, tssk-tssk, and patronizingly say, “This girl has no idea that this is the best time of her life.” Others might think, “What an ungrateful shrew.” Dr. Dan will be proud of my dental dedication. All I’m saying is that currently life feels far from glamorous, I do not know how to have a full-time job and still pursue writing, my thighs are growing while the pool of single men is shrinking, and that I would be bored if I weren’t so exhausted all the time.

I believed it. I fell for it. I spent my working days fantasizing about all that I could get done if I didn’t have a job: reading, writing, exercising, cooking, cleaning, organizing – in general, getting it DONE, and becoming the woman that I’ve always dreamed of being.

But there is a problem: when one has nothing on her schedule, no time constraints, no responsibilities – not to mention, no income – then it’s hard to do ANYTHING. Laziness begets laziness. In theory, I now have all the time in the world to do things – and so it’s no big loss if I don’t do it now. So I don’t really do anything at all. Except make cookies. And check our mailbox everyday at 2pm.

My mind, completely un-stimulated, has been a dry well. I have had nothing to write about – no creativity whatsoever. PZC says that his best writing is done when he’s supposed to be doing something else – and I agree with him. When I sit down with the grand expectation and intention of writing, and I have no time constraints, and no deadlines, and nothing to prod my brain, then I usually wind up with nothing but a blank page.

Last night, Julie and Mel came upstairs to find me in the child’s pose on my bedroom floor, silent and depressed. All of our friends had gone home after our St. Paddy’s Day barbeque, and I was feeling so sad I could hardly stand it. Why? Why does sadness sometimes hit me out of nowhere, like an Atlantic swell?

They got down on the floor with me, and scratched my back, and made me laugh, and then we all talked about our lives, our hopes, our disappointments. In the end, because I have the best roommates in the universe, we prayed together.

It’s a new day. I am grateful to wake up in it. And I am hopeful for what it might contain.

What are some things that I might get someday?This, and this, and the Bluebird Cafe version of this. Still this. This might be appropriate, too.

Where did the phrase “balls to the wall” come from?
“The expression comes from the world of military aviation. In many planes, control sticks are topped with a ball-shaped grip. One such control is the throttle—to get maximum power you push it all the way forward, to the front of the cockpit, or firewall (so-called because it prevents an engine fire from reaching the rest of the plane). Another control is the joystick—pushing it forward sends a plane into a dive. So, literally pushing the balls to the (fire)wall would put a plane into a maximum-speed dive, and figuratively going balls to the wall is doing something all-out, with maximum effort. The phrase is essentially the aeronautical equivalent of the automotive “pedal to the metal.” (from this site – thanks, Carl!)

It is the middle of the night. It is almost 2am. It is dark. It is dark outside, and it is dark inside. I am in my pajamas. I am in my bed. My bed is a pull-out couch. My hair is in a ponytail. The covers are twisted, and I can’t find the sheet. The only light is coming from my computer screen, and the crack underneath the door. My left shoulder hurts. This happens when I have been having too many asthma attacks. THIS happens when I don’t have medical insurance to get Singulair. My toenails are red, and my fingernails are red. It is quiet. The only noise is coming from my fingers typing. I am cross-legged. I am slumped forward. I am not alone in my bed. I am sharing it with my cell phone, my big red leather bag, my inhaler, a book called “The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters,” two pillows, and a Princeton sweatshirt. I should turn on a lamp. But why? I am thinking about something very personal. I’m not going to tell you what. My left foot is asleep. Now if only my whole self would follow.

My blogging idol, Dooce, used to blog about her workplace. However, she has also warned, “BE YE NOT SO STUPID,” as this fatal move was the kiss of death for her career, careening her down the path of being fired, having her name slandered, and creating many enemies.

I guess I’ll take my chances.

I will take my chances because, for the most part, my job is great. I have no need to cut down my co-workers or blaspheme my boss, I enjoy many parts of what I do, and ultimately, I am quitting in less than 6 weeks. It’s just that today… today, oh people, today, I am sooooooooo bored.

Everyone is out of the office on vacation – everyone in this great, wide church of 180 employees. I sit in my cubicle, to-do list fulfilled, no emails rolling in, nothing of note happening on the Facebook, every article on The Onion read, the assurance that I am no one’s Missed Connection on Craigslist, and the sun shining away outside. My brain is filled with nothing, and yet all sorts of everything.

When the brain is not stimulated, it is amazing what sorts of imaginary scenarios come into play. For example, while sealing an envelope today, I thought, “I shouldn’t lick the seal – they’ll be able to trace my saliva.” Or when the paper was jammed in the copy machine, my experience as the Xerox Whisperer led me to send all sorts of soothing thoughts to the mammoth machine until it cooperated. As I began filing away an entire month’s worth of music, I imagined that I was in a Presbyterian Concentration Camp and my very life depended on the expedience of my filing abilities.

This, too, shall pass. Until then, I will try to keep from chopping my own hand off with the paper-cutter.